And love is
not a song
sing out loud—
inside a cave
as the dark
where no one
will hear it,
where no one
will echo it back.
And then there are nights like these, when my body craves the touch of another. No need for sex, just a head against my chest and a hand to hold. Another heartbeat to feel besides my own, while the night carries on unbothered and the rain pitter-patters against the windowpanes, calmness and warmth being the only things allowed in our space.
I will write you letters which I will never send , I will write you poems which you will never read , I will tell stories about you which you will never know , I will miss you and break a little and you will have no idea , its funny how sometimes we can love and die over someone so silently.
My story doesn’t end with you. My story doesn’t end with a broken promise and a shattered heart and me picking pieces of myself up off the floor.
My story doesn’t end with you. My story doesn’t end with faded dreams and lost faith and the inability to love again.
My story doesn’t end with you. My story doesn’t end with darkness and anger and resentment, with bitter cynicism and weary skepticism.
My story doesn’t end with you, with the boy I thought I loved walking out the door and never looking back.
My story doesn’t end with you.